Diamondhead

by Patrick Robinson

  Mack Bedford looked back at the dying flames of the tanks, and tried to hold back his tears for Charlie O’Brien and the rest. He stared again at the bridge, and the anger welled up inside him—But these fucking towelheads crossing the river. . . . Jesus Christ! . . . They’ve just murdered my guys!

  The silence seemed to cast a mantle of unreality over this tiny corner of Iraq, a land of such unaccountable hatreds. There was no movement among the stone-faced SEALs as they watched the little group of wraithlike figures still walking toward the center of the bridge. Still with their hands held high.

  From here their sandals made no scuffing sound on the sand-swept flagstones of the bridge. It was as if the Americans were watching through a long-range slow-motion camera lens, watching the advance of this murderous little cabal that had caused lifelong heartbreak for these serving U.S. troops.

  But the Arabs kept coming, kept walking. Only the Foxtrot Platoon commander recognized them as the missile men he had watched through his binoculars across the river. And once more he raised the glasses and stared at the oncoming killers, unarmed now, but still with that unmistakable loathing etched on their faces.

  There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that these were the perpetrators of this shocking crime, committed in cold blood with four of the internationally banned Diamondhead missiles. And now there was a murmur of restlessness among the Special Forces as they watched the bizarre scene on the Euphrates Bridge.

  Team leaders, fearful of the rule-book consequences of attacking men who carried no weapons, were muttering softly. Steady, guys. . . . Take it easy. . . . Let ’em keep coming. . . .

  Now, as the twelve Arabs reached the center of the bridge, their footfalls could be heard in the hot, shimmering air. It was a flat, subdued, yet poisonous sound, and still they held their hands high. On the far bank, women and children were gathering to watch as the twelve men walked quietly toward the infidels of the U.S. Special Forces, their sworn enemy.

  Everyone on the western side of the river would remember the quiet. And every one of the Americans standing there would recall the sudden sharp metallic snap, as Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford rammed a new magazine into the breech of his M4 automatic rifle and began to run hard, straight at the bridge. These were not the “hours of the wolf.” Mack Bedford was the wolf, an all-American wolf, snarling, blood-thirsty, right out of the deep forests of the great state of Maine.

  Lt. Barry Mason reacted first. He swiveled around and set off in pursuit of the SEAL team commander. NOSSIR . . . NOSSIR . . . FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, STOP . . . DON’T SHOOT!

  Mack reached the bridge first, a full twenty yards in front of the lieutenant. There was a desperation in Barry’s voice as he yelled, “DON’T DO IT, SIR . . . FOR CHRISSAKES, DON’T DO IT!”

  He was racing across the ground now. But not fast enough. Mack Bedford’s gun spat fire, cutting down the four leaders in a hail of well-aimed bullets. The big SEAL stood facing them, his rifle leveled straight at his enemy. Lieutenant Mason was almost on him, arms outstretched, but Mack rammed his finger on the trigger and sprayed bullets into the oncoming group. No one had time to run. No one had time to plead. The SEAL commander just kept firing. And one by one the Arab missile men fell dead into the dust, until they formed a ghostly white shallow hill, their robes fluttering in the hot, dusty southwest wind.

  Lieutenant Mason hit his boss with a full-blooded block about one hundredth of a second too late. They both crashed to the ground, and as they did so the Americans stampeded forward, shouting and cheering. From across the river there was a sound of weeping and wailing, as the women ran toward their fallen loved ones.

  Lieutenant Mason helped the boss to his feet, and the Americans engulfed the two officers. One young SEAL, with tears rolling down his smoke-blackened cheeks, kept repeating, over and over, “Thank you, sir. Thank you. My brother was in that tank.”

  There was no voice of dissent among the thirty Americans who had cheated death that morning. Several of them came up and offered a handshake to the SEAL commander. Others said loudly, “Those bastards had it coming!” or “’Bout time, too!” or even, “We ought to do that a whole lot more often!”

  For a couple of minutes, Mack Bedford seemed unreachable, as if the bloodlust of the wolf had subsided. He stood there at the bridge, and merely continued to say, “They killed my guys. They murdered my fucking guys. And I owe them that.”

  Across the river, residents of the village were walking forward to claim their dead, carrying the bodies back to the east bank of the river. Three SEALs stood in a line facing them, rifles leveled, but there were no recriminations, no shouts of anger from the Iraqis. Not on this day, when the death toll on both sides was comparable—twelve insurgents, twelve SEALs, and eight Rangers.

  In the background the burned remains of the tanks still sent black smoke into the sky. And every soul on either side of the river, mourning their dead, understood what had been done, and why the outcome was as it was. Here in this ancient biblical land of Mesopotamia, an ancient pact from one of the most celebrated books of the Old Testament, Exodus, had been enacted—life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.

  High above, two U.S. Army Chinooks were making their approach, clattering down toward the rough ground beyond the burned-out hulks of the tanks. Each of them contained medical supplies, nursing staff, military investigators, and combat-ready Special Forces. But at this point none of it was necessary. There were no wounded. Anyone in proximity to the missile was not only dead but cremated. For most of them, there were no remains. In time there would be white crosses, erected in scattered communities back in the USA, bearing simply name and rank in commemoration. A fallen soldier, known to God.

  The dust storm created by the mighty rotors of the Chinooks obscured the horror scene on the road. And through it walked the SEAL officers who must ascertain precisely what took place. Only one of them, the Camp Hitmen CO, Cdr. Butch Ghutzman, outranked Mack Bedford.

  They met at the cornerstone of the bridge and talked briefly. The tanks were still too hot for examination and would be for several hours. Commander Ghutzman looked across at the Iraqis still carrying away their dead and asked Mack, “What the hell’s going on over there?”

  “I guess they’re looking after their casualties, sir.”

  “They get shot or shelled or something?”

  “Shot, sir.”

  “In the middle of the bridge? Were they making some kind of a charge on our guys?”

  “Nossir. They were pretending to give themselves up. I shot them.”

  “Jesus. Were they armed?”

  “How the hell do I know whether they were armed?”

  “You understand why I ask the question?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  It was only a rough garret set high in the roof of a squalid gray stone house three streets back from the riverfront, directly across from the area the Americans were now evacuating. Huddled in the corner murmuring into a cell phone, in Arabic, was an elderly Iraqi, a veteran of the ill-fated Desert Storm and now a trusted “stringer” for the al-Jazeera television network based in gleaming modern offices in Doha, the capital city of Qatar. That phone call represented the vital link al-Jazeera holds to the battlefields of Iraq, the embodiment of its determination to make the United States look bad, really bad, at every available opportunity.

  The al-Jazeera network is the most controversial Arabic news channel in the Middle East. It was founded in 1996, and since then it has burgeoned from a small localized station broadcasting only in Arabic to a vast international network, broadcasting twenty-four hours a day in English. It has forty foreign bureaus worldwide with dozens of correspondents. Its staff has been recruited from all the big Western television newsrooms—the BBC, CBS, CNN, and CNBC. Al-Jazeera may be counted on, implicitly, to report any form of negligent or ill-disciplined U.S. military action anywhere in the Middle East.

  On this day the newsroom was busy. Bill Simons, a former BBC editor, tired of its c
hildlike left-wing bias, had elected to pack up and join the Arabs, moving his life from South London to downtown Doha, on the east coast of the Qatar Peninsula. Bill knew a good news story as well as anyone, and the urgent tones of Abdul calling from faraway Abu Hallah on the banks of the Euphrates set his journalist’s antennae alight.

  How many did you say were dead? Twelve, shot down in cold blood by an American officer? Right there in the middle of the Euphrates Bridge? Jesus.

  Had there been a battle of any kind? What’s that? A couple of U.S. tanks slightly damaged after they opened fire on the village? Nothing serious, right? And then this American went berserk? Wow! And where are the bodies of the twelve villagers? Oh, you have them? Completely unarmed farmers just walking to their fields . . . Gimme your number, Abdul, and stand by.

  Forty minutes later, al-Jazeera went to work in its customary mode. Its familiar chimes, which always sounded as if they emanated from the heart of a mosque, signaled for the 4:00 P.M. news headlines. A dark-eyed beauty from Riyadh began the broadcast:Reports are coming in of a terrifying atrocity committed by U.S. Special Forces on a bridge over the Euphrates River near the Iraqi desert town of Hit. Twelve unarmed local farmers were apparently shot down in cold blood by an American officer. All of them died.

  Our correspondent was unable to provide the names of the dead, but Iraqi police are expected to supply details later this evening. So far, U.S. military chiefs in Iraq have declined to comment until more of the facts are known. The Pentagon denies all knowledge of the incident and instructed our reporters to speak to the U.S. authorities in Baghdad. We will bring you more on this breaking story as the evening progresses.

  For years it has been impossible for Western news networks to ignore al-Jazeera, which has been labeled the mouthpiece of both Osama Bin Laden and al-Qaeda. Any time there is an unusual military problem in the Middle East, the chances are the story hits first on al-Jazeera. And boy, was this ever unusual.

  Inside all newsrooms, both print and broadcast, in London, Washington, and New York, there is a near-permanent watch on the Qatar station, which is tuned in, always, to the eyes and ears of the Arab world. And when the possibility of a U.S. atrocity on the Euphrates came bounding onto the screen like a Labrador puppy on steroids, the left-inclined media of both countries could hardly wait to savage the military that guards their freedoms and keeps their nations safe.

  One “enterprising” journalist made a phone call to the U.S. military in Iraq and was told, “Yes, we do have a report of an armed clash along the Euphrates, and yes, there is a Navy SEAL commander assisting right now with an internal investigation. We have reports of some casualties on the U.S. side, no knowledge of Iraqi casualties.”

  By the time various editors and rewrite men had finished with this and added it to the “report” from Abdul in the attic, it was on for young and old.

  MASSACRE ON THE EUPHRATES—SEAL COMMANDER FACES COURT-MARTIAL

  There was, of course, an absence of real facts, like what caused the battle? Which side opened fire first, and with what? Did Americans die, which compelled their colleagues to retaliate? Did they come under attack, unprovoked, from roadside weapons? Was there any complaint from official Iraqi authorities?

  Never mind all that. What mattered was the chance to demonstrate murderous bullying by U.S. troops, shooting and killing innocent Iraqi farmers, slamming the iron fist of Uncle Sam into the guts of unarmed Bedouins.

  There had plainly been glaring failures by U.S. commanders to control their unruly troops. And how did this make the USA appear in the eyes of the world? (See editorial on page 21.)

  Not since the disgusting behavior by U.S. troops in Abu Ghraib prison in the spring of 2006 has the ethos of the United States military been called into such question . . . etc., etc.

  This bombardment of journalistic half-truths, misapprehensions, and exaggerations almost caused the roof to fall in at the Pentagon, especially on Corridor 7 on the fourth floor, in the head offices of the United States Navy. SEAL activities have been known to raise the blood pressure of navy chiefs, but mostly at the HQ of SPECWARCOM in San Diego. Only when an incident looks likely to spiral out of control does general disquiet start rippling along E Ring and into the office of the chief of naval operations.

  Adm. Mark Bradfield, a former U.S. Navy carrier battle-group commander, occupied the CNO’s chair in the Pentagon. Right now he was staring at the front page of the Washington Post, and uttering the time-worn phrase of those in high command but not on the battlefield—“What in the name of Christ is going on over there?”

  His personal assistant, Lt. Cdr. Jay Renton, was staring at the front page of the New York Times, and grappled for the most calming phrase he could think of. Jay’s kid brother was a SEAL, serving in Afghanistan, and he knew firsthand about the low cunning of the Taliban and al-Qaeda, the way they had open lines to al-Jazeera and reported the most lurid and unlikely scenarios to the Qatar station, the way they knew how swiftly the left-wing press of the United States would jump all over American troops. “Looks like a pretty nasty battle along the Euphrates, sir,” said Jay. “And, like always, the insurgents get to al-Jazeera television a long time before we’re on the case.”

  “Doesn’t say anything about al-Jazeera here,” replied the CNO, somewhat gloomily.

  “It does here in the Times,” answered Jay. “Quotes the source of the story as al-Jazeera, the authoritative Arab-based television station.”

  “Hmmmmm,” replied the CNO, an element of suspicion entering his voice.

  “Sir, Garrison Hitmen is probably eight hundred miles from Qatar. Now how do you think the television station found out? Because some al-Qaeda killer hopped into a chicken shed and phoned ’em—with the information that a dozen of his guys had been shot. Never mind why, never mind the circumstances.”

  “And how did al-Jazeera find out about the SEAL platoon?”

  “They did not find out about it. The U.S. media phoned through to Iraq and discovered the SEALs had been in action on that day along that part of the Euphrates. They took it from there.”

  At that point a call came from Jay Renton’s office. “Sir, we got something coming through right here from San Diego. Shall I download it or send it through on the link?”

  “Hold it right there. . . . ”

  “Excuse me, sir—be right back.”

  The lieutenant commander left the office and walked through to the bank of computers that was relaying reports from every theater of war in which the United States was involved. Especially Iraq.

  The signal from SPECWARCOM was from Rear Adm. Andy Carlow, commander of the Navy SEALs. Its message was stark but, in this instance, extremely helpful: Two SEAL platoons came under separate attacks south of the Hitmen Garrison yesterday. Four U.S. tanks hit and destroyed by insurgent missiles. Twenty dead: twelve SEALs, eight Rangers. The attacks were unprovoked. SEALs returned fire. Iraqi casualties sustained. No final count.

  “Guess that wraps up this newspaper crap about cold blood,” growled Admiral Bradfield. “In the worst possible way, of course.”

  “Sure does,” agreed Jay Renton. “Do we make any public statement?”

  “Not yet. First of all, the bereaved families have to be informed, and then we need to get a full report from the senior SEAL commander on the mission.”

  “And what do we tell the media, which is going to bombard us with questions about a possible court-martial and God knows what else?”

  “Instruct the press office that the United States Navy does not make statements until the facts are known and diagnosed.”

  There was an undercurrent of pure disquiet running all through Camp Hitmen. Reeling from the deaths of so many of their officers and buddies, the men of the SEAL, Ranger, and Green Beret platoons were stunned by the version of events that was currently appearing in U.S. newspapers and, in particular, on television.

  The accusations that a SEAL commander had shot down twelve insurgents on the bridge were being prese
nted as if he had just met them on the street and then turned his rifle on them for no reason whatsoever. As one-sided accounts go, this one was right up there.

  It seemed that no one at al-Jazeera had bothered to check the validity of the secret Arab correspondent, who had slunk away from the battlefield and telephoned a truly outrageous account to the television station, without even mentioning the horrifying, and flagrantly illegal, damage the Americans had sustained before they retaliated.

  And the tone of certain U.S. media editorials was directed accusingly at the troops on the ground, the guys who put their lives on the line every day, on behalf of the government of the United States of America.

  “Why am I doing this?” The question was not often asked by Special Forces, whose training provided them with a cast-iron wall of self-righteousness. How else would it be possible to turn men into an unstoppable professional fighting unit, contemptuous of the enemy, and ever aware of one shining part of their creed: “Professionalism is about the total elimination of mistakes. It has nothing to do with money”?